


Without Remorse

by spaceowl



Category: Daredevil (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - High School, Angst and Humor, Catholic Guilt, Catholic School, F/F, Karen Bit A Priest, M/M, Matt Has Emotional Issues, Priest Kink
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-05-19
Updated: 2015-05-19
Packaged: 2018-03-31 06:59:28
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,647
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3968782
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/spaceowl/pseuds/spaceowl
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"I haven't shown Christlike respect to people in authority," Matt said. He tongued the place inside his cheek where the slap and his own teeth had sliced it open. Wasn't it true, what the scared children said -- that Father Wesley always finished what he started? "I've been... disrespectful. Angry."</p><p>"You always confess to anger," sighed Father Nelson, through the grate.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Without Remorse

**Author's Note:**

  * For [nni](https://archiveofourown.org/users/nni/gifts).



> Warning for one slur. Also, blame Nni.

Matt was fifteen, and he grit his teeth and clenched his fists and always said the Angelus at lunchtime. It was like God was drawing out his blood, word by word -- and He meant to draw it slowly, judging by the angry red crescents in Matt's palms, the scuff marks on his pant legs and textbooks. Blood came from the splits in his pink lips and the scrapes on his elbows.

God would draw his blood every time the word faggot rang out across the schoolyard and Matt would drop his books in the dirt and sprint towards the accuser. Matt was there in a moment, Matt was throwing punches and swearing, Matt was catching a sharp something on his jawline. Matt fell as a few people gasped, and he heard metal clatter onto the schoolyard concrete before Vladimir huffed a sharp breath and ran.

Another pair of feet ran after Vladimir, faster than him, but Matt didn't know who it was until later, after the teacher had grabbed Matt by the arm, after he'd been forced to sit on the hard bench outside of the office. He tried not to poke at the bandage they'd slapped on his jaw. The whole world smelled like wood polish and shame as he closed his eyes and listened.

The third time this week, he heard her say on the phone to his father. We can't let this keep happening.

The words faded back into stern white noise when trembling, calloused fingers grasped Matt's hand. Matt jumped at the sudden intrusion, but relaxed at the familiar smell of dog hair and panic and metalworking.

"Thank you," whispered the shaky voice -- Melvin. "I didn't... thank you."

Matt, knowing the hall was empty merely because of the hand in his, shrugged. "I didn't know that was you. You okay?"

There was a pause. Melvin must have been gesturing in some way. "Ah, er, right. Yes. I'm fine," he said. "He didn't get to me."

Matt nodded again, and concentrated on where he could feel Melvin's palms begin to sweat. He had heard Vladimir's fist make contact before Matt could intervene. Now, he could hear Melvin's heart patter like a jackrabbit.

"That's good," Matt said, because demanding the truth was sometimes cruel. "You should go home, though. It's already half past three."

"No," Melvin said, clenching his hand around Matt's. "I need to talk to Mrs. K."

Matt straightened up on the wooden bench as Melvin went to stand. "You don't have to--"

"You didn't start the fight," Melvin said simply. "Vladimir did, Matt, even if you threw the first punch. He had a knife, too, he -- he was the one who started it, not you."

There was something on Melvin's knuckles, sticky and rough like torn skin, but he pulled his hand away from Matt when he left into the office. Matt knew Melvin, knew he would explain to try and end the war the schoolyard seemed to want. Three weeks later, Matthew was finishing his Friday detention, and Melvin still hadn't come back to school. They all told him Vladimir looked like he'd been hit by a truck. 

Three years later, and all Matt knew was that Melvin was the one who never came back.

***

Matt sits in the dark, waiting for the sliding partition to open. The collar at his neck is tight, having worn this school uniform for just over three years now. The priest was taking too long to open the grate. Or had he missed it opening? Is he over thinking this? That was one thing he shared in common with his teachers. Over thinking everything, listening to no one. The partition jerks open.

"Bless me, Father, for I have sinned," Matt says, all in one breath. He wants to go back to study hall. "It has been four days since my last confession." 

He can hear the familiar creak of the wooden bench, but more pronounced than usual, like the person sitting there is unaccustomed to the discomfort. The smell of some strange, bright, mid-range conditioner cuts through the stale incense and oppressive coldness of the church.

"Alright, great!" says the priest. "What do you need to confess?"

"I-- uh," Matt stutters to a stop, violently yanked from his formal reverie. "Father?"

"Oh, sorry, was that too familiar? I mean, I'm kind of new at this," he says. "Wait, I mean -- ah, crap."

Shaking his head, Matt relaxed into a grin. "Oh, so you are the new priest. Father Nelson, was it?"

"Let's pretend you don't know that, alright," comes the sheepish answer. "Tell me your sins."

Matt sighed. "Right. I took God's name in vain. I hit another boy -- several other boys. Pre-marital sex, I told another Father to fuck off, porn, I tr-"

"But you can't--"

"Yes, I can: porn. Wholesale, across the board, confession of 'porn'. And a Sister accused me of Pride, which she'll expect me to confess, so assure her I acknowledged it when she brings it up to you later." Matt took a breath and, with a suppressed laugh, imagined the new priest nodding off. "I've committed the sin of knowing this school is full of hypocrites and uncombatted cruelty. Yesterday I tied my shoes without hailing Mary, and I may have breathed once or twice."

"Your last confession was four days ago?" Father Nelson asked with a squeak.

Matt sighed. "Yes, Father."

"Do you feel guilty for your sins?" asked the Father.

Honestly, Matt had expected more surprise, or disdain, but he considered the question.

"I'm penitent, Father. But not remorseful."

"Clearly you'll have to explain the difference to me," says the Father, trailing off like he'd actually like Matt to continue.

Matt stiffens up and says nothing. After a few moments, Father Nelson makes the sign of the cross and Matt leaves the booth in silence.

***

Matt's seventeen and rebellious and ready to leave this place. The homeroom teachers had handed out guardian angel tokens to every student that morning. Matt rubbed the tip of his ring finger lightly over where the dollar sized coins were imprinted with little angels. "My angel has a laser etched crew cut," he said with a grimace. "And baggy shorts."

"Mine has a dress and long hair," Karen said. She perused the little note cards with embossed prayers that had come with the coins. "They gendered our guardian angels, and they spelled my name 'Karyn' again."

Matt laughed aloud, shaking his head as a teachers aide shushed him. "I can't believe this," he said. "Here, take mine. You're more likely to need his help, with all the shit you get yourself into."

"I'll pretend he's your dad," Karen said, putting a hand to her forehead like a damsel. "Oh, please save me, Mr. Murdock." 

"Gross. Guardian angels shouldn't tempt you to sin," Matt said, faking a righteous air.

"Neither should cute young priests," Karen rebutted with a grin. "That doesn't stop you from staying after Mass these days, does it?" 

Matt laughed like a forest fire, making no effort to smother it. Karen punched him in the shoulder as the teachers aide came over to scold them.

***

Karen's used to seeing Matt being tugged around by teachers, maneuvered without consent, like his lack of eyesight excused them to yank his arm under the pretense of guidance. She knows he hates it, but they both know it won't change any time soon. Actually being hit by someone in authority, though? 

Mr. Wesley's hand had swung back, ready to slap Matt across the face for one too many clever remarks. Karen was sitting right in the seat his hand crossed over on the back swing, he was going to hurt her friend and she wasn't thinking, and she just--

"It was like a zombie movie!" Claire enthused, patting Karen on the back. "You were so cool. Though, you probably have basically every disease ever now. Blood and saliva are not a very sanitary mixture."

Karen opened her mouth to theatrically gag in disgust, then brought her head back down to the cleanest running tap in the girls room. She swished water around her mouth for the umpteenth time, spat it out, and looked at Claire.

"I'm going to be expelled," she said. "They probably think I'm a vampire, or possessed or something." Her voice was getting watery. "Are they going to behead me?"

Claire rolled her eyes but opened her arms so Karen could bury her face in Claire's shoulder. Karen snuggled into her scratchy wool sweater and sniffled again. Karen had little droplets of blood on her polyester school shirt, and Claire hoped they would come out nicely.

"No, they don't think you're a vampire, and no, they aren't going to behead you. It's more likely that Mr. Wesley will be fired, rather than you being expelled." She patted Karen's head comfortingly as Karen tried not to sob.

The restroom door burst open, and Matt walked in. "Claire. I need to talk to Karen."

"Not right now, Matt," Claire said. She kept petting Karen's head, but Matt didn't leave.

Karen's head popped up. Her eyes were red, but her voice was steady. "Matt? Are you okay?"

"I'm fine," he said. "Are you?"

"Yeah," she said. 

Matt nodded, fiddling with his cane. "Good. I wanted to say sorry, for snapping at you in the hallway earlier." He forgot himself, some days. Forgot who was on his side.

Claire turned to fix Matt with a look. "You yelled at her? After she bit a priest for you?"

"No, it was before she -- Wait, you _bit_ him? I thought you just grabbed his hand, no wonder he.screamed," Matt said. "Oh my God... You can't bite priests, Karen!"

Karen let out a wet, teary laugh. "Yeah. I'm probably going to hell now," she said. Claire patted her back and tried not to laugh.

Matt sighed. "Well, at least I won't be lonely."

***

"I haven't shown Christlike respect to people in authority," Matt said. The booth was clammy with the oncoming winter cooling all the guilty exhalations of sinners. He tongued the place inside his cheek where the slap and his own teeth had sliced it open. Wasn't it true, what the scared children said -- that Father Wesley always finished what he started? "I've been... disrespectful. Angry."

"You always confess to anger," sighed Father Nelson, through the grate. "Like, every time. Don't you try to change? Or do you plan to cohabitate with your wrath forever?"

"I don't exist in a void, Father," Matt bit out. "My anger comes in actions I have to take, through words I can't withhold. If we lived in a just world, or a world where justice was sought, then maybe I wouldn't be so fucking angry, but--"

"I'll presume you're planning to confess to obscene language," Father Nelson interrupted, with a smile in his voice Matt could hear even over the rush of his own blood. Matt muttered a few more choice curses.

"But," Matt repeated, digging his fingers into his pant legs. "Until then, yes. I'll keep confessing."

Father Nelson shifted. Matt could hear him hum, and sigh. "Read and reflect on psalm's eighty-two," he said, finally.

"I will," said Matt. He had read it many times before. "Thank you, Father."

"God bless you," he replied. Matt left the booth.

***

Matt's sixteen, and he doesn't always wear the sunglasses. Sometimes he wants to be sure that people are flinching when they see him. He likes the way he can pick up where peoples faces are well enough to look right back at them when they stare.

Sometimes it's because he wants them to know in their bones that it was "that blind boy", the schools resident pet project, that bent their torso and cracked their ribs and made them bleed for things they've done. Lady Justice herself. He lost his glasses somewhere in this back alley a few blocks away from school, but it doesn't matter because if they ever try to touch Claire again then they are getting so much worse than this, and then God can be the one to judge them. He runs his tongue across his teeth as he swears this, tastes blood on his lips as the boys lie there.

Claire finds him standing over them, minutes later, stiff as a statue. She brings him to the nurses office, uses the keys she has from her extra credit volunteering to get into the cupboards; she's confused by his actions but touched at the words he mumbles, the passion of it all. She gets him aspirin, bandages, iodine, acts as the kindness he knows he doesn't deserve. She pushes him onto the bed, chastely kisses his bloody lips and nods along in agreement to every promise of safety he makes. He intends to keep them all, no matter what.

***

Matt catches Father Nelson in a classroom at lunchtime. He'd caught him before, been told to call him "Foggy" because "Father Nelson was my dad. Well, Mr. Nelson. How do you know it's me, by the way?" 

When Matt had told him he could smell him, Foggy had said, "Does that mean you can tell who you're confessing to in the booth, every time? That's kind of terrible, Matt. That's against the whole point of the thing."

Matt had shrugged and led the conversation away from his numerous sins.

Here in this warm, wide-windowed classroom, Foggy helps clean up from the morning class. He's preparing the room for a kindergarten group that would be coming through to learn how to confess. Matt can hear him wiping the chalkboard.

"What, exactly, could you bless?" Matt demands. Foggy startles and drops the chalkboard eraser but Matt keeps his eyes up to about where Foggy's must be. "What's the limit -- an ocean? The whole of space? Tell me, Father: could you bless my panini?"

Foggy put the eraser back in its place. "Why would you want me to--"

"Please, bless my sandwich, Father," Matt said. He was carrying the school lunch. Usually he saved some for supper. "Bless my backpack so it won't be stolen after school. Bless my pencils so God will give me the right answers."

"You'll get the right answers anyway, Matt," Foggy said. "You should know how intelligent you are. And no, you can't ask me to bless anything you want. Actually, I'm imposing a five item a year limit for you. Save it for Christmas, when you can share."

Matt grinned. "Then bless my house when it's Christmas, and I'll leave all the gifts inside while you do. Now I have four more remaining chances for you to bless anything I want."

Foggy groaned. "Was there a point to you coming here, Matt?"

"Well, I was trying to get you to bless my damned sandwich, Father," Matt said, trailing off in faux annoyance. With a yelp, he ducked a balled up piece of paper he felt flying towards his face and ran out of the room. Foggy heard his cackling ring out down the hallway.

***

The classroom was dead silent, but the desk was horizontal and Matt was too tired to care about comfort or noise levels. Until, of course, Foggy tapped Matt on the head and Matt jerked awake. 

"School's over, you know," Foggy said gently. "And it's Friday. Aren't you usually the first one out, especially on weekends?"

Matt huffed and sat up, stretching his arms out to try and bring life back to his stiff limbs. His body was exhausted from fighting off various infections in shallow cuts and abrasions he'd sustained in his last scrape-up. Last night he'd slept for fourteen hours, yet here he was at... four o'clock, when the rest of the student body had already gone, more 'passed out' than simply 'asleep'. His mind felt like it had been plugged up with cotton.

Karen had stayed, for a while at least, Matt thought. He could smell the lingering air of her shea butter hand lotion and never-quite-dry nail polish. Maybe she'd been planning to walk with him. Had Foggy sent her home?

"Hm, yeah. I'm giving up coffee for lent," Matt groaned as he stretched. "You know, for this, I better fucking get into heaven."

"Lent's in spring, Matt," Foggy laughed. "Not autumn."

Matt shrugged. "Atonement can last through the whole year, if you want it to."

"Well, you do have a lot to atone for," Foggy said, without malice, but thoughtless.

It was the anger that brought the quiet classroom around them into a ringing clarity. The sleepy magic of an empty and echoing room in early November was shattered under the weight of awareness. Of focus and expectation.

"I have nothing to be sorry for," Matt assured. It was soft spoken, his fervency an underground coal fire, furious and too lovely to hide. 

Foggy may have been staring. 

Matt rolled his shoulders in the silence, not sure what was coming. "Didn't Ms. K. come to retrieve me for detention?"

"Oh, yeah, she did," Foggy said. "I told her to go home, though. I needed to speak to you, anyway. I requested a while ago that the staff would stop placing you in regular detention. If you stay after school with me on Fridays, you could help set up for Sunday."

Matt laughed, a sense of betrayal overwhelming any gratitude he might have had. "Special treatment? Allowances? I get enough of that from the students and the other staff. From you too, Father?"

"You know I wouldn't do that," Foggy muttered. "It's just because, well, clearly regular detention isn't helping you."

"It comes off that way to the other teachers," Matt said. "You know it does. They still ask Karen what my next class is, when I'm standing right beside her."

"I know," said Foggy. "But Matt, you can't keep beating people up in response to it all. You're really smart, you know, I feel like non-violence is a concept you should have figured out by now."

"I figured out that non-violence doesn't always work," Matt gritted out. "That inaction doesn't help when you're actively being attacked. That sometimes you have to threaten the threatener, Foggy."

"By causing a broken nose, Matt? Over a kid tripping you?"

***

Matt's thirteen, and Battlin' Jack has scars on his knuckles that line up like a mirror to the blood and bruises he sees when his son walks through the door. Same splits on each joint, same pattern when Matt comes home from school. No words are exchanged; Jack provides a long sigh and a first aid kit and hands Matt the whiskey bottle. 

"What do I keep telling you, kiddo?" his father asks him, kneeling to patch up Matt's hand. Matt is sitting on the couch and cringes at the antiseptic on his wounds. He takes a gulp of the hard stuff, the burn no more pleasant but much more promising. 

"Don't fight fire with fire," Matt says quietly. "Walk away from a fight, your pride's not worth your life."

"Yeah, that, and to fucking do your homework," says Jack. "Which I'll note, you've been slacking on. Getting distracted by those fights I told you not to get into, huh?"

"No," says Matt, but his fathers lips thin out into a frown. "Alright, yes. But it's not what I'm getting into, it's the younger students. They don't have anyone looking -- ow -- out for them, and this new girl, Karen, she's--"

"Cute?" Jack guesses.

"Yeah, but that's not the point. Dad, someone stole her bag after school, just, ran up and snatched it. They were pulling out all her notes and books and her, er, girl supplies. Didn't take her wallet, just wanted to make her miserable."

"That's what your teachers are for, Matt," his dad says. "Tell a Sister, let someone know. Don't just go off and start throwing punches. Don't do what I did."

"I did tell," Matt says. His father tied off the bandages without him noticing, and Matt is soft around the edges from the liquor. Sure, it hurt more, but Matt cared less. He slumped to lie on the couch. "They didn't do a fucking thing for her. So I did."

***

"A kid tripping me, really? You think that's what this is about? God, Foggy, no. It has been years. Years of watching students abused by staff, years of people ripping apart new students, years of physical violence and theft gone ignored. I don't care what happens to me," Matt snapped at Foggy. "I really don't, but the students need someone to protect them. What I do is what has to be done."

Foggy shook his head. "Matt..."

"What? What else can I do, Foggy? When God’s supposed to be wrathful but can't, or worse, won't stop people who are cruel and unjust. What the hell does your God do to punish the people who are actually at fault, who hurt children?" Matt froze. "Our... our God."

Foggy was definitely staring. The sun had begun setting a while ago, but he hadn't turned on the lights, too busy preparing the homily. Now the classroom was dark, and Matt was pacing up and down the aisles between the desks. The sunset, the fall leaves, it all made it look like there was a fire right outside the grillwork patterned window behind him. Matt stopped and stilled, silhouetted and facing that burning sea of red.

"I believe in God, Foggy," he whispered. "I swear I do, but some days it's harder." The tears were welling up, but his father told him not to cry in the same breath as he told him not to fight. Said they were both futile. Matt felt no remorse for doing either.

Foggy stepped forward to turn Matt to face him. "The Lord will break the staff of the wicked, the sceptre of the rulers," Foggy whispered, reaching his hand out and brushing his thumb over the scar Wesley's ring had left in silver on Matt's cheekbone. "Even the fir trees would rejoice at thee."

"King James," Matt noted, his voice quavering. "The New International Version translates it as 'gloat', instead of rejoice." 

"I always preferred the version that didn't remove Lucifer. He was, well, kind of a big deal," Foggy said. His hand traced Matt's jawline. "Made things more interesting."

Matt ducked his head, leaned in to brush his lips to the palm against his jaw. "You also have become weak, as we are," he quoted, whispering it against the lump in his throat.

"If anyone would be the morning star," Foggy began, but he trailed off. The devil, sure, but Matt wasn't a king in this Babylon. He didn't vie to put himself above God, only argued with hearsay, questioned printed ink, and tried to understand as any good son should. Foggy's thumb trailed down to touch Matt's chin.

In a moment, Matt grabbed Foggy's black shirt, giving only the smallest pause to listen to Foggy's heartbeat before kissing him. Foggy's lips were soft, and Matt kissed him more delicately than he had meant to. He was scared to pull away once he'd done it, but they did both have to breathe. 

Matt was looking somewhere around the bridge of Foggy's nose, eyes wide and surprised in an unintentional reflection of Foggy's own expression. Foggy thought he was beautiful.

"Oh," said Foggy. "Wow."

Matt pulled back a bit more. "You didn't pick up on that, huh?"

"Not completely," Foggy admitted, pulling Matt back and leaning heavily on the desk. "But I think I'm starting to see where you were coming from."

***

It was Friday again, and Foggy was so fucked.

He hadn't slept at all the previous Friday night once he got home. The homily he'd been preparing then was before him now, ready to memorize, and he hadn't read a single word of it in the last half hour. He stared at his desk, a light scuff mark the heels of Matt's black leather shoes had made against the wood. His worn leather soles had clicked like a gavel against the solid desk as he had writhed and kicked in ecstasy. With a furious blush, Foggy lay a stack of papers over the mark.

They taught him scripture and obedience, and warned him of sin. They hadn't fucking warned him about devils with soft hair and crooked smiles and fire in their eyes. They hadn't warned him their furies would seem so sweet, so righteous. When Matt had pressed his lips together they had come up red as blood, like he'd been at it for hours biting them to a wet slick extreme. Matt's lips should be illegal. They probably were, actually, god damn it.

***

In another room entirely, Matt had been spending the entirety of study hall reading trash on Business Insider, taking online quizzes that labelled him everyone from Dr. Harold Shipman to Gandhi, and desperately trying not to think about God for a while. Finishing up a twenty question 'IQ test' that showed a spinning picture of Einstein sticking his tongue out at the end as some perverse form of flattery, Matt heard the bell ring to signal the end of the day. Wonderful: time for another detention. 

From how fast Foggy had disappeared last Friday once Matt finally got his pants back on, Matt was sure this wouldn't be horrifically awkward at all. It's not like he'd fucked a priest in his own homeroom. 

Matt was so, so, so fucked. He knew Foggy had already requested last week that Matt stop taking detention with the other students. He'd requested Matt help him well before last Friday had happened, and Foggy must be aware that it would be pretty conspicuous to go back on it that quickly. Maybe Foggy could just blame Matt, say he was too disruptive.

Matt dragged his feet and made his way to the classroom.

***

"I'm eighteen," was the first thing Matt said when he entered the room. "And technically the age of consent in New York is seventeen."

"Jesus, Matt!" Foggy waved his hands angrily at him. "There could have been someone in here."

"There isn't," Matt said with confidence. "But if there was, yay, Happy Birthday to me. Let's celebrate what occurred in late September. I love mentioning my age for no reason."

"You're a libra?" Foggy asked with a raised eyebrow. "And you want to be a lawyer?"

Matt blushed a bit. "I'm aware of the irony."

"Just wanted to make sure," said Foggy. "Now, come over here."

***

"I hate this," Karen said, looking at her report card. "A hundred percent? It's like he didn't even read my paper this time. I called Saint Denis 'a real help' after a long Friday night, and said an indulgence was 'a super hot shower'. I can't get a hundred for that, I just can't."

Claire sighed. "Come on Karen, think like Father Leland would want you to. WWJD, right? Would Jesus freak out about free high marks? No, He'd be grateful, and maybe start thinking about biting more teachers."

"Ha, trust me, I know exactly how much better Jesus is than I am," said Karen. "I heard he could bench press two hundred pounds and that his beard smelled like bergamot. But I really don't think Jesus had to deal with a teacher giving him nothing but A's, namely because Mr. Wesley isn't trying to appease Jesus through what amounts to blatant bribery."

"Father, not mister, and that dickhead ought to be sucking up to Him after all he's done. This is a good thing, though, right?" Claire said. "You kind of sucked at religion, in as much as you can suck at anything that involves essays. Now it'll match your economics and biology marks better. Straight A's! Go you!"

"I'd rather he was fired, considering he tried to hit a student," Karen said, and shrugged. "But we can work on that."


End file.
